


This fic has no title, just words and a tune

by AlbieGeorge



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: A quick one off ramble from a prompt, Fluff, M/M, Physio AU, Professional Golfer AU, Who'dve thought, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 21:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13936227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlbieGeorge/pseuds/AlbieGeorge
Summary: Alastair has golf to play, but he slept funny.  Only a surly physio with strong fingers and a winning frown can save the day.This is a quick one-off fluffball, based off a prompt that jiminyneesham fired into the Tumblrsphere just I was at a loose end.  It has no plot.  It does have a Joe Root drinking tea cameo.  Fruitloopy started it.  Nah, actually, Jimmy started it in his Instastories, but there's no way in hell I'm gifting it to him.





	This fic has no title, just words and a tune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jiminyneesham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jiminyneesham/gifts), [Fruitloopy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruitloopy/gifts).



It was after the fifth time that Alastair had looked up from his muesli at something Joe had said, only to wince and grab at the thick band of muscle that joined his right shoulder to his neck, that his caddy raised both eyebrows and told him in no uncertain terms to go and see the physio.  Alastair sighed, and resisted shaking his head because that hurt too.  He sometimes wondered who was in charge in this professional relationship, but at this point in his career he didn't mind relinquishing power to his younger, louder colleague.  He played better when he didn't have to think.  He played better when the unfortunate combination of a bad mattress and a long-standing neck problem hadn't conspired against him.  Joe was right and Alastair told him so, as he got up and headed for the door.  Joe smiled at him cheerily through a mouthful of toast and reached for the pot on the breakfast table to pour himself a third cup of tea.

Alastair plunged his hands into his pockets and shivered as the force of the air con in the tournament's medical centre hit him square in the chest.  A lady with a clipboard and a tournament uniform smiled brightly at him as he squinted in the bright artificial light.

"How can I help you today, Mr Cook?" she said in a voice dripping with customer service training.

Alastair smiled weakly.  "I know it's short notice, but I wonder if you have any physio appointments available?" he asked, slapping on a winning smile and making eye contact in case it helped.

The girl blushed, "Umm, yes, I've sure we can squeeze you in somewhere." She looked down at her clipboard, smiling to herself, then looked back up.  "If you take a seat in room 3 I'll page someone."

Alastair gingerly pulled himself up onto the physio couch, and aimlessly swung his legs like a small child on a swing.  He wondered which of the tour physios he'd get, and a nervous knot settled in his stomach.  Part of him, for awkwardness's sake, hope it was the burly middle aged lady with the strong thumbs and the bedside manner of a serial killer.  But there was the very realistic possibility that it would be Jimmy.  The terse, northern physio with the piercing eyes and tight-fitting polo shirts who Alastair had flirted with for a year before he'd drunkenly run into him one evening while drinking away the feeling of not making the cut.  Jimmy had barely said a word in that year of flirting, and it was the same that night as, in the mood lighting of Alastair's pricey hotel room, Jimmy had demonstrated the full range of talents his well-trained hands possessed.

Jimmy had been gone when Alastair woke up.  He'd looked for him, but had only found the strong thumbed lady and an excruciating deep tissue massage.  And now here they were at the next tour event.  Alastair felt the knot of worry tighten as the door handle turned.

There was a long moment of silence as they eyed each warily other across the room.  Then Jimmy very quietly closed the door behind him.

"How are you?" he said, his voice less brusque than normal.

"Uhhh... good?" said Alastair, helpless for words.  "I've... I've hurt my neck."

Jimmy seemed to click back into professional mode.

"How did you do it?"

Alastair frowned.  "In bed."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow.

"Not like that!" Alastair squeaked, as he felt his face flush.

Jimmy almost smiled, and Alastair thought he heard him say "Good" under his breath as he crossed the room to stand behind him.  Alastair could smell his spicy aftershave mixed with coffee and liniment, and felt goosebumps rise at the recollection of the last time Jimmy had touched him.

"Take off your shirt." Jimmy said in a low voice.

Alastair complied, hands shaking slightly.

Jimmy made short work of the tight knots of pain in Alastair's trapezius muscles as he used his strong fingers and the base of his hand to draw quiet involuntary moans from Alastair's lips.

"Better?" Jimmy asked quietly as the massage ended.

"Infinitely," Alastair replied, relaxed and giddy as he turned his head to look at Jimmy and realised it barely hurt.  As he caught Jimmy's eye, he lost the use of language mid way through a compliment. "You're a..."

Jimmy smiled properly this time.  Alastair vaguely wondered if that was the first time he'd seen Jimmy smile.  He drew a picture of it in his memory, in case he didn't get to see it again.

"I'm a what?" Jimmy asked, smile still playing on his lips.

"I forgot." Alastair said quietly.

Alastair felt those strong physiotherapist's fingers curl around the back of his head as Jimmy closed the gap between them.


End file.
